


The Quick and Dead

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Language of Flowers, Madness, Memories, POV Third Person, Sibling Love, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt,<br/>Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!<br/>By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,<br/>Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!<br/>Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!<br/>O heavens! is't possible, a young maid's wits<br/>Should be as moral as an old man's life?"</p><p>A mad sister. A treasonous brother. Both exist as they were in each other's memories alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quick and Dead

Brother first.

Laertes storms the claustrophobic halls of the castle with hundreds of Danish voices behind him, a call to mutiny. Down the passageways and stairwells they stampede, and still more obscenities assault the walls from outside. Louder and louder the mob roars, but no call so ardent and so wrathful as that of their leader. The double doors to the throne room fly open, with a reverberating _bang_ as they smash into the wall. It is then, with brimstone boiling in his bloodshot eyes, dark hair plastered in frantic wisps to his forehead, that Laertes confronts his captive monarchs.

“ _Where is this King_?” He seethes, sword drawn. He dismisses men at the forefront of the crowd looming in the gaping wound of the doorway who shut themselves out obediently. It is up to the King to step forward, a rapier at his throat as soon as he does so. The unmanned throne is ripe for Laertes’ taking save for Claudius’ level headedness and Gertrude’s frantic bargaining. Trapped in a stalemate upon which the future of the country depends, no one hears the muffled sea of citizens heralding a new arrival until it is too late to stop her.

Sister second.

One of the doors creaks painfully open and through the gap slips Ophelia. Waif-like and blank-faced she pads in sing-song circles, dirt-crusted feet bare and scratched. A wavering melody hangs in the air above her, suspend on a breathy soprano. Thin lacerations mark her extremities and forearms. Hugging a dehydrated bouquet to her chest, she buries her face in delicate petals and tries to lose herself in the smell. She fails.

Were Claudius a more impulsive man, he would have grabbed the sword from Laertes’ limp hand and skewered the upstart with it. Instead, he lets Laertes inadvertently disarm himself, lowering the weapon in horror, eyes only for the shell that was his little sister.

Ophelia peeks over the bouquet and meets her brother’s gaze.

In a second that lasts impossibly long, the fog protectively clouding her mind dissipates:

_Laertes, peering through the bars of her crib, poking his fingers through at letting her grab at them._

_Laertes, fencing with a switch in their nursery, telling her about his lessons._

_Laertes, keeping her upright when her corset nearly chokes her the first few times she wears it_

_Laertes, spinning tales of adventure, his scraped knees dangling off the side of a chaise._

_Laertes, turning and waving goodbye from a dock._

_Laertes, here._

Fragments of a happier past try to piece themselves together but outnumbering them are less kind shards, ugly and frightening, scraping her psyche.

_Polonius, rotting somewhere, everywhere under her feet_

_Hamlet, a clammy hand on her bruising wrist, calling her whore_

_A fireplace devouring loveless letters_

_He loves me he loves me not._

_Laertes, a thousand miles away_

She has forgotten how to hope.

With the care of a child on a balance beam, she approaches Laertes and looks up at him. He searches her face for any sign of recognition but her glassy stare reveals nothing. Half a nation on his side, the King at sword-point and he has never felt so helpless.

A few dried leaves fall to the floor as Ophelia rummages through her bouquet and retrieves two crumpled plants. She nods when her brother takes the offering from her outstretched hand, but when he tries to stop her from turning away she winces and jerks away from him.

_Ophelia, mind-bogglingly small in his awkward arms_

_Ophelia, ducking behind him when introduced to new lords and nobles._

_Ophelia, giddy with young love, sighing after Hamlet._

_Ophelia, out in the garden, alone, considering aphids._

_Ophelia, shrinking, shrinking, shrinking._

If she knew how much sympathy the rest of the room suddenly had for her, she might have been touched. Or angry. If she knew how much pain she was causing her last living kin she might have tried to stop herself. If she knew how much power she held in her bleeding hands she might not have.

_Ophelia, caught between her father and her brother on the precipice of a downwards spiral._

Slowly, calmly, she makes her way to each person and bequeaths dying flora unto them until she is left with only a withering daisy which she gives to a Prince who is not there. Confronted with her empty bouquet she wraps her arms around herself and begins to rock from side to side, apologizing tearfully for her lack of violets. With nothing left to say she sings.

_“Farewell Ophelia, and remember well what I have said to you.”_

When her song is finished she bestows a blessing on the room (later, some will swear it was a warning) and exits empty-handed, through the throng of Danes, to the outskirts of the palace grounds, and into the waiting arms of a willow tree. (Later, Laertes will rage at the crowd for not stopping her)

_“’Tis in my memory lock’d and you yourself shall keep the key of it.”_

A lullaby in the branches of the tree quiets the cacophony inside her head. The fluid babbling of the brook below, too, soothes her mind. Everything hurts. Her eyes, her throat, her hands, her feet, her tongue, her skull. When the groaning limb beneath her snaps the cool water is welcome relief.

_"Pray you, love, remember.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it's taken me so long to post an Ophelia piece. She was all I wrote about for a solid year. Man.
> 
> Ever noticed how Laertes is the only one who's, like, nice to her during the play and whom she talks with like a normal human being? Actually teases? And has a sHARED LINE WITH?!  
> AND ANOTHER THING: EVER NOTICE HOW THE LAST THING HE SAYS TO HER IS "REMEMBER WELL WHAT I HAVE SAID TO YOU" AND SHE GIVES HIM ROSEMARY.  
> FOR REMEMBRANCE.  
> AND EVEN BEFORE THAT HE MAKES A COMPARISON TO A VIOLET.  
> IT IS SAD IN MY BRAIN.  
> (I'm sure I'm not the first person to point it out, but that's not gonna stop me from ranting about it.)
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
